Lingering Dusk
by Frodo Silverlune
Summary: Sam dies in Ithilien, plunging Frodo into a darkness from which there may be no return. Can he find healing, or is he doomed to a life of greif?
1. Goodbye

The Lingering Dusk  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings.  
  
Chapter 1 Goodbye  
  
~~~~*~~~~  
  
~Ithilien~  
  
Legolas stared intently into the billowing clouds of smoke and ash pouring over the trembling mountain range. The clouds seemed to be great balls of fire, reflecting the crumbling Mountain's death agony miles away. Bright streaks of lightning writhed and crackled in the air; the Dark Lord was defeated.  
  
"Aragorn!" he cried, pointing to the orange-lined crest of a jagged peak towering above them, "Look! He returns!"  
  
Aragorn whirled around, sweaty hair flying and clutched his sword hilt tightly. The eagles were returning, and they bore something in their talons! In spite of the grim battle enveloping him, he broke into a bright smile and began to fight his way to the edge of the battle field. The honored Ringbearers would be needing his healing skills.  
  
A swift pass of command to his generals and Aragorn was free to welcome the returning party. The great birds' wings swooped thunderously as they hovered above the ground long enough to drop their burdens gently into the Ranger's waiting arms. Gandalf dismounted and thanked them, and they were gone as quickly as they had come.  
  
Aragorn knelt down and gently held Frodo's filthy head in his arms, barely noticing the maimed and bleeding hand, so intent was he on finding any signs of life.  
  
"Yes!" he cried, and raised his face skyward in thanks for the faint, warm breath he barely felt on his sensitive fingertips. Frodo was alive! He carried him the short distance to a hastily constructed tent and laid him down on a small cot, covering him with a warm blanket. Then he returned for Sam.  
  
As with Frodo, he pressed two fingers on Sam's neck gently beneath his jaw line. One..two.so faintly the heartbeats came! Anxiety rose in his chest as he noticed the pinched look about the hobbit's pale yellow face.  
  
"No," he whispered. He had seen that same pinch on too many faces of the dying before, the same fading light.  
  
He scooped Sam up and, returning to the tent, laid him loyally beside his master. Then he got to work.  
  
~*~  
  
Gandalf flung aside the tent flap and stepped into the makeshift hospital, his towering frame completely filling the doorway. His shoulders sagged as he watched the vain efforts of his friends desperately trying to bring life back into the fading hobbit.  
  
He approached Aragorn silently from behind and laid a gnarled hand on his shoulder. The man's muscles tensed and he whispered harshly  
  
"Not now, Gandalf. Sam's life hangs by a spider-thread."  
  
Tears filled the wizard's eyes as he forced himself to speak the next words.  
  
"He needs not your skills, my friend. You must attend to Frodo."  
  
"No!" cried Aragorn, and his trembling fingers flew to Sam's artery. "Not Sam. Anyone but Sam."  
  
"I'm sorry," whispered Gandalf as he kneeled down by Sam's bedside. "I'll look over him. You must see to Frodo if he is to live."  
  
With great reluctance, Aragorn relinquished his place and turned his back on the hobbit's bed.  
  
Gandalf pulled up a chair and sat motionlessly, a debate raging in his mind. He had the power to save Sam's life, yet he was forbidden to use it, on this occasion. He knew it was the will of the Unseen that he should pass on.  
  
"Why must I always be the bringer of evil tidings?" He asked aloud, forgetting in his grief. There was no answer from the other occupant of the tent.  
  
Gandalf stared at Sam's face, so peaceful in the flickering torchlight.  
  
"Rosie will look for his coming, but he will not return," he mumbled.  
  
Suddenly, the waxen figure stirred! The dark-ringed eyes fluttered weakly open and came to rest on Gandalf.  
  
"Gandalf?" he whispered hoarsely. "Am I dead?"  
  
The wizard smiled, and Aragorn was at his side in a flash.  
  
"No, you are not, not.." Gandalf paused, unknowing whether he should continue.  
  
"Yet," Sam finished for him, struggling for breath. "Will you tell...everyone...goodbye for me?"  
  
Gandalf nodded, and the hobbit's kind brown eyes sought feebly around the room until they found the prostrate figure of his master.  
  
"May I...." he began, and Aragorn nodded. He picked Sam up gently, blankets and all, and laid him beside Frodo. Sam's brown hand snaked out and found Frodo's own bandaged one.  
  
"Goodbye Frodo," he whispered. "I didn't loose you, just like Gandalf said to. I'm.." his breath caught in his throat for a moment, but he found it again. "I'm..sorry I'll be..leavin' you now.." His words were falling softer and softer. "You're safe."  
  
He snuggled up close to Frodo and laid his head on his chest. His eyes closed, and his breathing slowed.  
  
"Come, Aragorn," said Gandalf, and the two grieved friends left the tent, the leather doorway flapping mournfully in the frigid wind. The battle raged on in the distance and destruction rained on the land beyond the quailing mountain range. The wizard and the ranger didn't notice the clamor and noise for the silent, blinding tears rolling down their weathered cheeks.  
  
Samwise died an hour later.  
  
~To be continued~ 


	2. Funeral

Lingering Dusk  
  
Disclaimer: I no own Lord of the Rings, I just borrow characters and twist around the plot.  
  
Thanks Linreil and wordwiz8121 for reviewing!  
  
Chapter 2 Funeral  
  
~~~~*~~~~  
  
Frodo woke to find himself alone in an airy, faded-yellow tent upon a soft feather mattress. A bird was chirping forlornly somewhere outside, but there was no other sound besides that of a small stream bubbling.  
  
'Where am I?' he wondered as he sat up slowly.  
  
Suddenly a sharp pain throbbed through his right hand, and he gasped, seeking the source of pain. His eyes widened in shock at the bandaged gap between his fingers, and slowly the memories began returning.  
  
"Sam?" He said softly, puzzled at his friend's unusual absence. Frodo swung his legs out from under the covers and stood up shakily. He was very weak and hungry, and didn't know where he was.  
  
He found a shirt and pair of breeches folded neatly on a chair by his bedside and smiled to himself. So Sam was here! He probably had stepped out to fetch a bite to eat.  
  
With these encouraging thoughts, Frodo dressed himself (a little awkwardly from his new handicap) and stepped outside.  
  
A cold wind was blowing and gray clouds hung densly overhead. Frodo shivered and hugged his arms around his thin frame. Where was everybody? Countless tents were pitched in neat rows on a long field before him, but not a soul was in sight. Small fires were pitifully smoking as though put out not an hour ago. Obviously it was an encampment of men, judging from the size of the tents. A sharp snap overhead caught Frodo's attention and he noticed a black banner waving stiffly in the wind. Upon it was a silver tree ringed with stars. It didn't look imposing, so Frodo figured whoever had provided him care was not evil.  
  
Frodo began to walk amongst the rows and rows of tents, looking for anybody who could tell him where he was. When he was in the middle of the camp, a strong gust nearly swept him off his feet and his sharp ears caught a dull moaning coming on the wind. Curious, he headed through the woods in the direction from which it had come.  
  
He had not far to walk before he came upon another field. Upon it was a long procession of hundreds of warrior-like men dressed uniformly in mourning black.  
  
'Someone important must have died,' Frodo thought, craning to see through the sea of legs before him. The frustrating embarrassment he had experienced in Faramir's cave came back to him at finding himself in a world built for the tall.  
  
"Excuse me," he said up to a man, but apparently was not heard. The moaning was becoming more insistent now and through a gap in the legs he caught a glimpse of four pallbearers bearing a small platform.  
  
'A King's son must have been killed in battle,' Frodo thought sadly. 'There must have been a great battle while Sam and I were in Mordor. So this is why I couldn't find Sam! He was at the funeral. But, Sam would never leave me alone. So why..'  
  
Frodo's heart suddenly was weighed down with a terrible sense of dread, and a longing to know who was on the platform. He began following the pallbearers along the outside of the crowd. They were bringing the platform to a raised dias at the end of the field upon which eight elegant figures stood.  
  
They were all dressed in black save for one standing out like a sore thumb in blinding robes of white. His hair and beard were white also, and be bore a tall staff. Three of the other figures were as small as himself, and two he recognized.  
  
"Merry! Pippin!" he cried, and ran towards them, dodging legs and bodies in his way. He stopped panting beneath the dias and would have run up to meet them had he not seen the tears of grief running down their mournful faces.  
  
"Hello Frodo," said Merry, and suddenly caught him in a fierce embrace. His shoulders shook with fresh sobs and Frodo gently pushed him away, curiosity and pity written all over his face.  
  
"Why Merry, what's wrong?" he asked. "Is it the King's son?"  
  
Merry shook his head.  
  
"They didn't tell you?" he asked sadly, fully knowing the answer.  
  
"Where's Sam?"  
  
Merry slowly turned Frodo around by the shoulders towards the pallbearers who had just lain down their burden. Curly blonde hair upon the pale, waxen face met his eye.  
  
"Sam," he whispered, and staggered forwards.  
  
Sam was dressed in simple gardener's clothes, the same ones he had worn on the Quest, but now patched and washed and ironed. His face was peaceful in sleep, and a slight smile was on his lips. Upon his still bosom were his hands clutching a bouquet of new spring flowers.  
  
Frodo felt numb, as though it were all a dream. The wind still blew and the mourners still wailed, but he felt, saw, nor heard nothing about him. There was his bandaged hand reaching for Sam's elbow. His fingers were grazing the rough gray wool, but he did not feel it. Merry came up behind him and took his shoulder gently.  
  
"Come," he said, and unfeeling, Frodo allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. It wasn't until he began being led away that a great wave of anger washed over him.  
  
"Let me go!" he shouted, and wrenched himself away.  
  
"Frodo.." began Merry, but Frodo was already kneeling beside Sam, grasping his cold hand as though he would never let go.  
  
"Wake up, Sam," he said, tears choking his voice. "Stop playing. Wake up. We can go home now, it's over."  
  
"Frodo..."  
  
"No! Leave me alone!"  
  
"Frodo."  
  
A deep, throaty voice behind him spoke up firmly. Through his tears, Frodo's eyes widened in surprise.  
  
"Gandalf?" he gasped. "But, you fell.."  
  
The wizard put a comforting hand on his shoulder.  
  
"I will explain later," he said. "Now is the time for grief, and remembrance."  
  
Frodo turned back to Sam's still corpse and brushed a raindrop from his cold cheek.  
  
"Why?" he moaned, clutching his maimed hand. He slowly rocked back and forth in unimaginable grief. His heart felt as though it had been ripped from his chest. Sam couldn't be dead. He couldn't. Not Sam. Not the gentle, simple gardener who's laugh lit up the most dire circumstances. Never more would he hear him call cheerfully "Good morning Mister Frodo!" Never again would he attempt to convince Sam to lay aside formalities. He was dead.  
  
Off in the distance a high, clear maiden's voice began a mournful song. Her piercing tune rang above the countless bowed heads in the crowd before him and a dreary rain began to fall steadily on the field. Hoods came up and shoulders hunched beneath the downpour, but Frodo remained erect, staring unseeing into Sam's face.  
  
A cloak was draped about his shoulders and he half expected to see Sam standing behind him smiling meekly. He shrugged it off. Nevermore would anyone wait on him. That was Sam's duty, what he had lived for, to please his master.  
  
A wave of dizziness swept over him and he remembered he had just risen from a bed of sickness. But he didn't care. Sam was dead. There was nothing left, but endless pain.  
  
~To be continued~  
  
Please review! 


	3. Burning

Lingering Dusk Ch 3 Burning  
  
Disclaimer: As I said, I don't own Lord of the Rings. I'll bet Tolkien would probably be sad if he learned what all we do to his characters without his permission *ahem cough slash authors ahem cough*. (did I say something? *looks around vaguely*) If Tolkien wanted his characters to be gay he would have made them that way. (I'm not talking about rape/abuse, I'm talking about slash, like Merry and Pippin having intercourse and stuff. : ( Ew ew ew ew)  
  
Thanks Linriel, wordwiz8121, Marie, iolaushurst, and Trilliah for reviewing!  
  
Merry Christmas Eve!  
  
~~~~*~~~~  
  
Frodo sat and stared dimly out the window of his chamber in the palace at Minas Tirith. The warm April sunshine slowly warmed the cold stones set in the wall, and the green vine climbing outside his window drank in the golden light with relish. Small blue and yellow flowers opened their faces to welcome the warmth and invite bees to their abundant banquet of sweet nectar. The blue sky above was speckled with little white clouds drifting aimlessly, borne on the warm spring breeze rustling the leaves on the vine outside the window.  
  
Frodo reached out and plucked a small blossom, fingering it delicately. As he observed it's innocent beauty, a small tear escaped from his swollen eyes and trickled down his pale cheek to land on the velvet petal, quivering like a tiny crystal diamond. He sighed deeply and the flower fell from his fingers. He didn't bother to pick it up.  
  
A hesitant knock sounded on his door and he closed his eyes, groaning inwardly. Why must they torment him so? Couldn't they leave him alone to his grief? True, they were trying to comfort him. But how could he be comforted when they wouldn't let him heal?  
  
'No,' he said to himself. 'Broken hearts never heal. Seldom do they even scar.'  
  
~*~  
  
Merry sighed and pushed open his cousin's door. There he was, sitting by the window, right where they'd left him last night, and the night before last, and the night before that. Ever since they had come to Minas Tirith four says ago he had sat in the same chair by the same window, not eating, not sleeping. He was thinner than he had been in Mordor, and becoming thinner. Frodo's cheeks were sunken in and his clothes hung increasingly looser upon his skeletal frame. His red, black circle-rimmed eyes, when lifted, held a deadened despair. All light had vanished from his face when he laid eyes on Sam's body, and it had not returned. He was a living corpse, nothing more.  
  
With much difficulty they had forced him to eat a little before coming to the city, but now all hope seemed to be lost. No one had Sam's gift of coaxing the stubborn hobbit, and no one would again. Tragically, Merry knew no one could pull his cousin from the mire of darkness he had tumbled into but Frodo himself. And he didn't seem to want to.  
  
That was why Merry was here, to help his despairing cousin see some hope was after all left in the world.  
  
'Yet if I do help, what will he live to become? Will he go on to keep his friends from despair, always living and breathing with the face of Sam haunting his dreams?'  
  
Yet the Wise of the city had encouraged him to try. Merry was their only hope to save Frodo, and in him they had placed their trust.  
  
~  
  
A while later, Merry emerged slowly from Frodo's room, shutting the door solemnly behind him. One brief glance at his face was all one needed to see his failed attempt.  
  
~*~  
  
Night came subtly to the city. A lengthening of shadows, the light dimming golden yellow to bronze, and a majestic sunset which Sam would never see. He, Frodo, would be left to linger on amid the drawing dawn and fading sunsets, doomed to his guilt. Sam was dead, and it was all his fault.  
  
Nevermore would those warm brown eyes light up so warmly when they met his own. Nevermore, never again. Sam was dead. So was the ring. If Sam had lived, Frodo could have dealt with that loss. But now...  
  
The wrenching away of the ring and Sam had left him torn, utterly broken. He wished only for a release from this bitter existence, the horrible guilt.  
  
Nothing...except death. Death had released Sam from suffering. In the same manner, it would join him to his lost friend.  
  
Frodo rose from his chair, muscles protesting vainly from days of inactivity. He stared blankly at the red sunset. It was crimson, like blood. The sky was streaked and smeared with it.  
  
"Perfect."  
  
Yet one thing troubled him. It was the how. He had Sting, but the sight of blood sickened his stomach. And he did not want to die on a sword. It was too gruesome. Something more serene would suffice. Starving was too long, and it could be prevented. Poisoning was an option, yet he did not want to slip away in pain.  
  
Frodo threw his hands in the air and fell into the chair helplessly. He couldn't die, not while his instincts hung onto life with every thread in his being. It was hopeless.  
  
~*~  
  
"Frodo," Aragorn said softly, laying a knarly hand on the slumped hobbit's shoulder. There was no response, so he continued. "I suspect you shall want Sam to be buried in the Shire."  
  
"No."  
  
The answer came so abruptly and unexpectedly that the King nearly jumped.  
  
"Not buried, not in a coffin. Sam would never want to rot in a box in the earth, he told me so once. He said he couldn't stand it, knowing his flesh would curl up and rot away, not when something could be done about it."  
  
"Cremation?" Aragorn asked softly, and Frodo nodded stolidly. His face was ashen, a figure carved from stone, devoid of any emotion.  
  
"I would like to carry his ashes back home," Frodo said stiffly, as though having rehearsed it.  
  
"Very well," Aragorn said, and left the room, a tear slowly rolling down his cheek.  
  
~*~  
  
The Fellowship, Farmir, Eowyn, Arwen, and others stood in a reverent half-circle before a long, low table piled all around with brush. The formed a solid wall of black, unmoving save for the chilly wind rustling their robes. On the table before them laid Samwise, stretched on a bed of oil-soaked kindling.  
  
They stood high above the city on the long protrusion slicing through Minas Tirith. All about them stretched the landscape of Gondor, and in the distance the murky mountains bordering the fell land of Mordor. The wind swept all about them, and in the distance a torchbearer appeared.  
  
Tears were flowing freely down all faces save one. Frodo's eyes were fixed on Sam's peaceful face turned up towards the blue sky above him. It was the last time he would ever lay eyes on that gentle face.  
  
The torchbearer had approached now, and bending gracefully, he lit the brush at the feet of Sam. Moving swiftly, he kindled the wood at Sam's head and on either side of his body, then stepped back.  
  
The flames spread quickly, inching towards Sam's body on the table. They grew higher; now one could only see him through the flickering tounges.  
  
Suddenly, there came a cry and Frodo leapt forward, scrambling over the burning brush. He climbed onto the table and took Sam's body in his arms, casting his face heavenwards as he calmly waited, tears streaming down his face as the flames grew closer.  
  
"Frodo!" cried Gandalf, and springing from a frozen state of shock he thrust his staff into the fire and it parted before him. He grabbed Frodo by the arm and wrestled him from the table just as the flames engulfed the scene.  
  
"NO!" Frodo wailed as he was pinned thrashing on the ground. Pippin clung so tightly to Merry that the poor hobbit was rendered unmovable. "SAM!" Frodo's high scream of agony pierced to the hearts of those assembled there. It was terrible, more so than any cry a Nazgul could muster, more terrible than the most tortured of victims. It hung wavering on the air, rising higher, fluctuating until finally drawing off into a diminished whimper. It was the sound of one who desperately longed for death, and when finally given the opportunity, it was denied him.  
  
"Let me GO!" Frodo screamed. Aragorn and Faramir were having a trying time holding the mad hobbit down as he kicked and fought for all he was worth, bashing his heels and hands upon the ground until they bled.  
  
The fire grew higher and higher until nothing could be seen except the orange flames and pouring heat. Sam was gone.  
  
~To be continued~  
  
Please Review! 


	4. A Scattering of Ashes

Lingering Dusk Ch 4 A Scattering of Ashes  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings.  
  
MERRY CHRISTMAS everybody! And thanks Fire Nymph of Mordor and Linriel for reviewing!  
  
Linriel: Thanks for being so faithful! I was very happy to complete this story FIRST before posting, so I could post a chapter a day! And nooow, for a Christmas present, the final chapter!! Yes, Sam dying is very sad, but I wondered what would happen.  
  
**SORRY! I was very hesitant about posting 'slash,' which I didn't intend it to be. I tried to show that it WASN'T slash in the paragraph before, and that they were NOT infatuated with each other, but I guess it didn't work. I didn't *mean* it to be slash, and I'm very sorry. I hope I've corrected that *blush* error, and that you all will *gulp* forgive me? *turns red and blushes* I'm very sorry. That was very hypocritical of me, I won't do it again. (I was debating whether or not to post it or re-write it, but I wanted to post on Christmas and I had about 10 minutes on the computer.)  
  
Once again, I'm very sorry that it seemed like slash. But notice how I didn't have them French kissing and stuff. I mean, in some countries, people gives kisses on the cheek in greeting, right? I really didn't mean for it to sound like slash. I've fixed it.  
  
~~~~*~~~~  
  
Frodo clutched the silver vessel to him desperately as he bounced along on his pony. The graceful valley of Rivendell opened wide before him, but his eyes failed to see any beauty. They were haunted with the face of Sam surrounded by flames.  
  
He dismounted slowly in the courtyard of Elrond's house, keeping his eyes cast down. He did not want to cause pain in others upon their seeing his own.  
  
"Where is Bilbo?" he asked, and a tall elf with sad eyes stepped forward, motioning for Frodo to follow. They wandered down many long passageways arched stately with rich beams of dark, carved mahogany. The marble-paved floor told no tales of long years as they glided silently along, finally stopping before a partially open door. Clutching the canister to him, Frodo slipped inside.  
  
Bilbo as seated in a comfortable red chair beside the fireplace, sleeping. Frodo tapped him gently on the shoulder and he started awake.  
  
"Good gracious me," he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. "Is it supper-time already? Why, Frodo!" His expression of joy immediately fell. Frodo held out the intricately carved silver canister, freshly engraved with a simple name. "Oh..." breathed Bilbo as he read 'Samwise Gamgee, Ringbearer, Loyal Friend, Gentle Gardner 2980-3019.'  
  
"Oh, my boy," was all poor old Bilbo could say.  
  
~*~  
  
Frodo stood silently in the dark halls of Bag End, clutching his cloak tightly about him. Two years had passed, two long years. The book was completed. Now it stood wrapped in packaging for its journey in the mail to Buckland, and the waiting hands of Merry. He had returned to finish it, and for that reason only. He had suffered four horrifying anniversaries alone, with no one to comfort him or ease their passing.  
  
His hair held hints of gray, and his blue eyes, once so full of life were ringed in black, dead to look upon. He never went out, only to purchase provisions or to mail letters, and his skin was whiter than ever. The Quest *had* claimed his life, as Gandalf had unknowingly predicted, yet in a way unforeseen by any, even the Lady herself. Many times had he dwelt upon the words spoken to him in the Mines: "Many who die deserve life, and many who live deserve death. But can you give it to them?"  
  
Now, at long last, he was finally going away. In the deep of Autumn he was going to make his last Journey, to a scattering of the ashes.  
  
~*~  
  
The sails were drawn, the anchor was lifted, and slowly the elven ship turned its prow into the sunrise. It sliced the golden water, trailing it out into slivers and bars of gold, cleaving in its wake. The rose-tinted clouds parted before them, and the ship passed between the two cliffs to the sea beyond. Frodo stood on deck and let the salt-tinted wind ruffle his curls. For the first time in ages, a trickle of peace began to seep into his soul. He sighed, and let the ship bear him to the Land beyond.  
  
~*~  
  
On a hill overlooking the sea, Frodo slowly unclasped the top of the silver canister bearing the ashes of Sam. Below him, the sea broke steadily on the rocks, the white foam sending its unceasing roar to echo against the wind-swept cliffs. He tilted his head to let the wind refresh him and sighed in relief. He had found peace at last, in the land of the elves.  
  
The years had passed, flowing and blending into each other until he could not tell them apart. Bilbo was slipping away peacefully, but he would not despair. Although he would be the last hobbit left in Valinor, his days would be filled with joy. Singing and dancing, and remembering. Reminiscing on the life he had lived before the quest, with Sam. Here, memories came alive, so that one seemed to live the moments of forgotten years over and over again, each time more real than that which came before.  
  
A small breath of wind crept into the canister and ruffled the top of the ashes, undisturbed since the day of their placing in Gondor, the last of Samwise.  
  
"Let it go," Gandalf had urged.  
  
Frodo dug his hand into the gray dust and suddenly he was once again in the land of Mordor, collapsing onto the ashen ground, throat raspy and caked with fumes. He felt he could barely go another step. He couldn't. It wasn't possible. The Ring dug into his neck and crushed him into the dust. He couldn't go on, it was impossible. Then suddenly Sam was there, kneeling beside him.  
  
"Come Mr. Frodo, up we go," he said, and Frodo found he could stand.  
  
~  
  
Frodo flung the handful of ashes into the wind, and watched them magically be whisked out to sea, against the flow of the wind. He smiled. Sam always had had a way with going against the flow, no matter what happened.  
  
He dug his hand into the silver vessel again and again, sending the ashes out to sea, watching each handful disappear into the distance. He was down to the last handful now, and suddenly he couldn't let it go. If he did, Sam would be lost to him forever.  
  
'No, he is not lost. He has never been lost. It has been you that has been too blind to see.'  
  
The silver canister fell to the soft grass. Frodo clutched the maimed hand holding the ashes to his breast and stepped forward.  
  
He fell and fell, watching the black rocks growing ever closer to him. He spun around and lifted his hand towards the sky, releasing the ashes into the wind. They whirled around in a maddened fury, and then he was caught.  
  
He landed on top of a warm figure grunting a muffled "Umph!" He knew that voice.  
  
"Sam?" He turned his head to find warm brown eyes staring fondly into his.  
  
"Hello Mr. Frodo," Sam said. "Did you miss me?"  
  
"Sam!" Frodo cried, and threw his arms around him. They remained that way for a long time, the two hobbits embracing each other on the rock, the waves crashing about them. Finally, they stood and surveyed each other.  
  
"How..what..." stammered Frodo, holding Sam at arms' length. Sam smiled.  
  
"You did it," he said. "You let me go. You learned to heal, and in turn released me from your prison. When you grieved, you had no time for remembering. Now that you let the pain go, I am real again."  
  
"Oh, Sam" breathed Frodo, the wind whipping his dark curls around his face, "I'm so sorry."  
  
Sam put a finger to Frodo's warm, trembling lips.  
  
"Don't be, Mr. Frodo," he said, tears glistening in his eyes. Suddenly overcome with emotion, he felt the love for his friend return. It had been there in the pass of Cirith Ungol, when he cradled Frodo's death-like head in his dirty hands, and it had been there when he hauled him onto his back and crawled up Mount Doom. The love had suffered with Frodo on the rock at the base of the exploding volcano, and had fallen asleep for a while on the white bed in Ithilien. Now it had finally returned.  
  
A great wave broke on the rock just then, engulfing the two hobbits in a white wave of foam and sea-spray. They clung to each other to keep from falling off, and when the wave cleared they found themselves upon the hill Frodo had just departed.  
  
There was no longer any silver canister lying empty upon the grass.  
  
~~~*~~~  
  
The End  
  
**Once again, sorry! Please let me know if this ending is better! *blush very sorry blush* 


End file.
